What Had to Be
by Josie Lange
Summary: Lady, warrior, lover, Queen. Love, destiny, and duty shape the young noblewoman who would be Ferelden's Queen after the Orlesian occupation. The story begins just before the events of "The Stolen Throne" and continues through the rebuilding of Ferelden afterward; many spoilers for "The Stolen Throne." Rowan/Loghain & Rowan/Maric. Rated M for scenes of war and adult situations.
1. The Die is Cast

_**This new story takes place within the timeline of "The Stolen Throne." While it will not be a complete retelling of that tale, you will recognize certain scenes, events, and places from that story. This story will follow Rowan from just before the events of TST, through the rebellion, and during the rebuilding of Ferelden after she is crowned Queen. Needless to say, there will be spoilers aplenty for TST in this story. It will also go slightly AU in parts... just wanted that to be clear up front. Bioware owns all the people, places, and things, you're used to seeing... darn it.  
**_

_**Thank you to Suilven for the encouragement/poking I needed to get this story underway. Thank you also for the speedy beta! Your comments and suggestions are always right on the money. Oh, and I'm glad you liked the name. :)**_

* * *

The sounds of armored feet clicked through the hallways of the castle, their sound announcing the warrior's presence several seconds before the figure in heavy armor came into view. The warrior walked with a determined purpose despite the aches and pains brought on by the morning's training and sparring. There were healers and even a mage available to treat the injuries, but the armored figure preferred to let the body heal naturally whenever possible; the aches and pains taught lessons and were reminders of both success and failure. Still, a hot bath would do wonders to ease them and loosen the muscles that were already beginning to tighten.

The halls bustled with the normal daily activities: servants swept and cleaned floors, others held armfuls of linens—both dirty and fresh—as they made their way through the halls to and from bedchambers. Voices from the castle's audience chamber made the warrior pause and listen for a moment, the abrupt change in momentum causing the green plumed helmet she held tucked in her arm to shift slightly. She moved toward the door, nodding a greeting to the heavily armored guards on either side of it.

"Who is there with my mother and father?"

"She who would be Queen, Lady Rowan," the soldier on the right said, his voice tinged with trepidation. "She sought an audience with the Arl and Arlessa a short while ago."

"I'm worried, My Lady," the soldier on the left added, shifting slightly on his feet as Rowan met his gaze. "You know what will happen when the Usurper hears of this. She's considered a wanted criminal and just speaking to her invites harsh punishment."

Rowan nodded, understanding the guards' apprehension; it was something she shared. To say it was an uneasy time, not only in Ferelden but also Redcliffe, was the understatement of the Blessed Age. Rowan knew, even at her young age, that her parents' role as Arl and Arlessa was only as good as their coffers were deep enough to keep the Orlesian tax collectors at bay. Many of the longstanding vassals of her family—most recently, the Wallums of Rainesfere, stewards of the land until one of her brothers came of age—had been turned out of their homes by the Orlesians for failure to pay the crippling taxes the fat bastard king in Denerim had levied on the native Fereldans; most likely, the taxes were to try and gain favor with his cousin, the Emperor of Orlais. More and more of the 'vassals' within her parents' arling were now Orlesian. With each passing year, more and more Fereldan nobles were being pushed out of their lands. It was only a matter of time, Rowan believed, until her family was next.

Many of those now homeless noblemen and women had left Ferelden, if they had the means to do so finding sympathetic extended families in other lands. Others had moved toward Denerim with the hope of finding suitable employment, while others had turned to the Chantry for help. The truly desperate even had even gone south toward the Chasind lands, hoping that they would offer some sort of shelter to them.

But there was also one other place many of those former noblemen and women had turned to in the hopes of taking back what was lost. It was a risky gamble with little chance of real success, given the almost total capitulation of the remaining Fereldan nobility toward what they believed was the inevitable rule of Orlais. They had turned toward the woman who _should_ be Queen in the eyes of many Fereldans: Moira Theirin, daughter of Brandel the Defeated.

Curious, Rowan stepped toward the door, pressing her ear against it to listen to the conversation on the other side. Though Moira had been a friend of her father's for a long time, her very presence in their hall was a dangerous risk, let alone the message of resistance she always brought with her.

"Rendorn. Audra. I _need_ your help," Moira said, a pleading tone in her voice. "We can't stand by any longer while the Orlesians rape our people and our land. You are my most staunch allies… I _need_ you both at my side, fighting for what is rightfully ours. My son needs you… _Ferelden_ needs you. With you and your armies at my side, we will command the largest force of fighters since before the war."

Rowan heard her father speak, his voice sounding tired and resigned even through the thick wood of the door. "My friend, what you ask is difficult. It would mean giving up our home and our lands… my children would lose what birthright they have—"

"Your children are _already_ losing their birthrights! The Orlesians will turn you out of Redcliffe someday, whether it's at the whim of one of their chevalier commanders for not paying taxes, or maybe it will be just because they can."

"With all due respect," Rowan heard her mother begin, "wouldn't we be more effective to your cause by remaining in Redcliffe? After all, we've given you, your son, and your army support as often as we could. The area surrounding Redcliffe could be a staging area for you."

"That's just it, Audra. You have given support where you can, and Maric and I greatly appreciate it. However, you must know that you only remain in Redcliffe at the pleasure of the Orlesians; if one of their chevaliers wants your arling for any reason—or none at all—he will take it and have the support of the Usurper when he does so. You could be accused of treason simply for allowing me to step foot on your grounds. The time to act is now." Moira paused for a moment, which caused Rowan to press her ear even harder to the door. "I just received word that Ceorlic and Kier have finally allowed my messengers to speak to them. It will likely take some time, but if I can gather their support—and yours—we can really give Meghren a black eye. We can send a message that his days of tyranny are coming to an end."

A pregnant pause could be heard from the other side of the door. Rowan listened intently, wondering what was going on within the audience chamber. She shifted her weight and the helmet in her hand before pressing her ear to the door once more. Were her parents quietly discussing Moira's proposition? Was Moira still there, or had she moved away to give her parents privacy? Was Maric there with her? Was she talking to him? The suspense was palpable even through the wood of the door.

Rowan's parents had been reluctant to throw in their lot with Moira and her ragtag rebel army. For a number of years, Rendorn and Audra had both thought that the continuing rule of Orlais was inevitable. Many smaller uprisings had been quickly and summarily defeated by the Usurper and his chevalier army. The severed heads of his enemies were a constant adornment on the palace walls of Denerim and along the main roads linking the largest settlements in Ferelden. The sight of defeated and desecrated countrymen was meant to drive fear and hopelessness into the populace… and it had worked. Many Fereldans not only believed any uprising was futile, but that the Maker Himself condoned and approved the rule of Orlais. After all, it was the Grand Cleric herself that had declared King Meghren the rightful ruler of Ferelden, and many of the common men and women simply took their religious leader at her word. It was a difficult battle for Moira and her rebels to fight, not only from a military standpoint, but against the hearts and minds of Fereldans resigned to their fate.

Curiosity finally got the best of Rowan and she turned the handle on the door, entering the audience chamber to observe the goings on herself. Heads turned in her direction, looking her up and down as she drew closer. As best she could in her heavy armor, she curtseyed toward both her parents and then Moira; she did not see Maric in attendance. Rowan did not miss the looks of both exasperation and pride on her parents' faces as she greeted those gathered; a lecture about interrupting a conversation would likely follow later.

"Hello, Mother and Father. Hello, My Lady."

A broad smile crossed Moira's face. "Lady Rowan! It is a pleasure to see you. I'm sorry I did not bring Maric with me for this meeting; he is currently being tutored in the matters of court…" Rowan saw Moira's eyes flick briefly toward her parents before returning to her. "… For the day he eventually becomes King. After all, I don't want to leave the burden of teaching Maric such things completely on your shoulders."

_But will that day ever come? _"Yes, My Lady."

Moira briefly examined Rowan's heavy armor, nodding in approval as she did so. "I see you are continuing with your martial training, Rowan. Perhaps you may have better luck than I in getting Maric to practice his swordsmanship. He needs to improve if he is to fight by my side for what is rightfully ours. He is, sadly, a poor swordsman."

"Rowan takes her battle training very seriously," her mother said by way of agreement. Looking at her mother's carefully neutral face, Rowan sensed a 'but' coming. She was not disappointed. "...But, sometimes in her earnestness to learn those skills, she generally forgets the softer skills a lady is expected to know, like how it is impolite to interrupt a private meeting."

Moira laughed. "Lady Rowan is much like I was at her age, especially after my father was deposed by the damned Orlesians. I knew the skills of a noble lady, but also wanted to learn to fight so I could one day gather allies and fight to take back that which was stolen from my family. I have no qualms about Rowan staying."

If Rowan did not know any better, she would have sworn to Andraste and the Maker that Moira was trying to convert her over to her cause. She might be betrothed to Maric, but she was still just barely a woman… and a very young one at that. Why would her opinion hold any more sway with Moira than that of her parents? There was a very real chance that Maric would never be King, nor would she be Queen; the Orlesians' hold on the Crown in Denerim was strong indeed. From her conversations with Maric, he was completely content to remain in his mother's shadow. As the thoughts ran rampant through Rowan's mind, Moira turned back toward her parents.

"I know what happened to the Wallums... I saw the heads of Simon Wallum and his oldest son mounted on spikes at road leading to Rainesfere. There was a pamphlet nailed to the spikes, saying they were executed for resisting the confiscation of their lands for not paying their taxes and for speaking ill against the King." Moira scowled deeply. "The Orlesians are looking for reasons to depose the Fereldan nobility and replace them with their own. Before long, they will be trying to impose their _droit du seigneur_ on us; their lords raping our newly wed women on their wedding nights, trying to break us and breed us out!" Moira struck her open palm with her fist. "I have had _enough_ of watching our people suffer the cruelties of the Usurper and his men. We must tell them 'this far, and no farther!' Now is our opportunity to gather our people... to tell them that the days of us cowering in fear need to end and that we need to take back what is ours—what was stolen from us!"

Rowan had to suppress a gasp as she watched Moira gather up the skirts of her fine—if old—gown and drop to her knees. "If I must kneel and beg for help, I shall, for nothing is more important to me than the freedom of my people."

The silence in the audience chamber was thick and palpable; Rowan had to suppress the thought of taking her sword and slicing it through the air to see if she could indeed cut it. Her parents had turned to each other, whispering quietly and gesturing slightly with their hands. As for Moira, she remained on her knees, patiently waiting for an answer from the Arl and Arlessa. After several moments, Rowan watched as her father glanced toward her with a look of concern fixed upon his features. She knew then what his answer would be.

"All right," Rendorn said, taking Audra's hand and squeezing it tightly. "Redcliffe will join your army, but my children will not. They will be sent to my Cousin Edward's estate outside Kirkwall. He has no love for Orlais and will make sure they are safe… and safely anonymous. You should also consider sending Maric there for his safety."

Moira stood and curtseyed toward the Arl and Arlessa but, before she could speak, Rowan crossed the distance between them to stand near her. "No, Father! If you are to stay and fight the Orlesians, I will stay as well."

"And Maric must remain here with me," Moira quickly added. "He will learn what he needs to know as King from me. He won't learn those things if he's hidden away in the Free Marches."

"Rowan, no," Audra said, slashing her hand through the air. "You, as the future Queen, must be kept safe and away from the fighting. Besides, you're still too young..."

With a scoff, Rowan knew she would not be able to hold back her argument. She looked to her father, the hand not cradling her helmet held out in an urgent plea. "If I am to be Queen, let me stay and fight for those I may one day rule. Let the army see my face and see how I bear the same burdens they do. I won't be a pampered Lady living in a foreign land while others fight the battle for me." She shifted her gaze to her mother, trying to soften her expression slightly. "If I am old enough to be thought of as the future Queen, I am old enough to fight for that honor."

A brief, tense silence once again descended on the audience chamber. Rowan fought the urge to impatiently shift her weight from foot to foot. She stood there and watched the silent debate within her parents' minds, her armor becoming a tad uncomfortable and altogether too warm as her fate was being decided.

The thought of finding herself in the middle of a revolutionary war had been a distant one only an hour ago. Rowan had known that her parents had quietly given aid and succor to the small rebel army. It had been difficult at times as there were often Orlesian chevaliers and lordlings in and around Redcliffe. There had been quiet agreements with the merchants and taverns to keep the visiting Orlesians as preoccupied as possible when they were in town. That burden had fallen mostly onto the taverns, which had made sure the strong local ales and spirits that the Orlesians had ordered were never watered down. Getting them and keeping them as drunk as possible had helped those charged with smuggling provisions to slip out of town unnoticed. A hastily established brothel near one of the taverns—the thought of which made Arlessa Audra's stomach churn when it was proposed—had also done its part to keep the Orlesians busy. Of course, shrinkage of crops and animals from the local farms and forests had only been reported for appearances' sake when the Orlesians had begun to ask questions after the alcohol and aphrodisiacs wore off. Rowan had always known the risks if her family had been discovered helping the rebels.

Their time in Redcliffe was rapidly running out.

Rowan watched as her parents seemed to swiftly age before her. The fine lines around her mother's eyes seemed to deepen while her lips gently pursed. Dark circles suddenly became more prominent under her father's eyes and the small strands of gray in his hair seemed to shine with an internal light. Rowan finally caught her father's gaze and saw sadness wrapped in determination there. He breathed a quiet sigh.

"Eamon and Teagan will go to Kirkwall to be quietly squired by my cousin. I will send three of my best soldiers and my manservant with them; they will go disguised as merchants." Rendorn paused briefly, taking Audra's hand once more. "Rowan will remain here with us, per her wishes. If she is determined to defend our land, she will learn to become an officer and lead men into battle in my name."

"Thank you, Rendorn and Audra," Moira said, saluting them with arms crossed over her chest and her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you as well, Lady Rowan. With your support, we will all live to see Ferelden free of Orlesian rule."

* * *

The sun gleamed brightly off the still waters of Lake Calenhad, mirroring the brilliance that reigned overhead. Rowan felt a fine sheen of sweat break out over her skin, the strong rays of the sun threatening to bake her alive in her heavy armor. Though it was only early spring, an unexpected heat wave had blanketed the land. If the weather continued, the fruit trees would bud and blossom too early, which would worry the local farmers; frost was still a very real possibility at this time of year and, if today's actions were any indication, they would certainly need a bountiful harvest in the fall to sustain the army through the winter.

She looked nervously toward the path that wound up through the sides of the valley that cradled Redcliffe. A large contingent of the arling's soldiers stood at various points along the road and on the wide path that snaked its way toward the ancient Imperial Highway. Some watched over the town below, while others were turned toward the Highway itself, spyglasses trained on the distant horizon.

Mage Wilhelm fussed and fidgeted with his robes from where he stood next to Rowan's father in Redcliffe Castle's central square. He and his golem—an impressive creature that made the ground shake when it walked by—were asked to stand ready to provide assistance if needed, and a diversion when required. Even though Rowan had known him for several years as her father's retainer, his cantankerous attitude had not abated. He rarely smiled and was easily driven to exasperation, but he was fiercely loyal to the Guerrins, and—to her father—that made up for any prickliness in his demeanor.

Looking about, Rowan saw Wilhelm's golem standing at the doorway of a small fishing shanty near the shore of the lake. When her parents and Moira had planned this day, they had asked Wilhelm for his assistance in subduing the few chevaliers and Orlesian officers that had been stationed in and around Redcliffe. They had been rounded up one by one, and taken to the small shanty where Wilhelm cast a strong sleeping spell on each one. The golem had been stationed at the door to make sure none tried to escape if they had awakened prematurely. The act of imprisoning the Orlesians carried a death sentence, but Rendorn knew that they would all have a death mark on them anyway, as soon as word reached the Usurper of what had transpired here.

"We might as well make the most of it then," he had said, a small smile on his worried face. "If we are to have a price on our heads, we will make it worthwhile." Rowan had the feeling that it would be some time before she would see her father smile again. He had put on a brave face when he had bid farewell to Eamon and Teagan, who had been put on a small merchant ship berthed in Lake Calenhad two days before. By now, they and their escorts would be safely out of Ferelden, well on their way to Kirkwall and the safety of Cousin Edward's estate.

Maric stood next to Rowan's mother in the square, dressed in perhaps the only fine tunic and pants he owned, his high leather boots gleaming in the sun. His long golden hair was pulled back and secured by a small leather string at the nape of his neck. Though he was a tall young man, he still had a lankiness about him that suggested he was not quite finished growing from child to adult. He also looked incredibly bored with the affair. Rowan scoffed to herself. _What, does Maric think he has a more pressing engagement to attend?_

Rowan watched as Maric's gaze drifted over to where she stood next to her father's lieutenant, Marcus Wallum, the brother of the recently murdered Bann of Rainesfere. As he met her eyes, Rowan gave Maric a stern frown and shook her head slightly, which quickly turned into a grin as Maric at first looked hurt, then winked at her conspiratorially. As much as he had exasperated, teased, taunted, and otherwise drove her to near madness, she was fond of the young man she would someday marry.

Conspicuously absent from the proceedings was the Revered Mother of Redcliffe, Mother Abigail. The Grand Cleric in Denerim, Mother Bronach, had decreed that Meghren was the rightful King after Brandel's defeat and Ferelden's subjugation. Mother Abigail was a close advisor to Mother Bronach; there was no way she would recognize and bless this coronation ceremony on behalf of the Chantry. In fact, Rowan believed, Abigail was likely readying a scathing report of the proceedings to be sent to Denerim with the first courier she could hire.

The sharp sound of a trumpet drew the attention of those gathered to the grand entrance of Redcliffe Castle, where at the top of the steps stood Moira; she who was about to be crowned the rightful monarch and Queen of Ferelden in front of the witnesses and vassals gathered. It was to be an act of defiance against Meghren; an act to show that the Fereldans would no longer cower in fear of their Orlesian overlords.

Moira, Rendorn, and Audra had all thought the crowd of witnesses and well-wishers at the hastily planned coronation ceremony would be small, considering that they had warned many of the townspeople to stay away for fear of Orlesian reprisal later—and there would be a reprisal, a fact that no one doubted. Rowan watched as a broad smile crossed the soon-to-be Queen's face at the number of townspeople that had gathered within the square despite the warnings of the Arl and Arlessa. They were certainly brave, but Rowan worried about their fate after her family and army had fled with the Queen. The Orlesians took a dim view upon those they considered rebels or collaborators; Rowan shivered at the thought of heads decorating the walls of Redcliffe Castle.

Moira was resplendent in her heavy armor, which gleamed like a gem in the sun. She had opted to wear her armor rather than a fine gown to send a message to Denerim that she would be a warrior Queen, a symbol of defiance and a promise that she would either drive the Orlesians out or die trying. She descended the stairs of the castle, coming to stand in front of Rowan's father. Her gaze turned toward Maric and she favored him with another broad smile. After a moment she returned her attention to Rendorn, ready to accept her role and responsibilities as Queen.

Rowan felt her heart swell with pride as her father stepped forward, presenting a copy of the Chant of Light before him. Moira removed one of her gauntlets and placed her hand upon the book, taking a deep breath as she did so. She straightened her shoulders, pulling herself up to her full height.

Her father's voice filled the square as he began to speak. "Do you solemnly promise and swear to guide and govern the people of Ferelden, according to our laws and customs?"

"I do swear," Moira said, her voice strong and confident.

"Will you keep and maintain the laws of our people and temper your judgments with mercy?"

"I do swear."

"And will you keep and uphold the laws of the Maker and His Bride, Andraste?" Rowan did not miss the fact that her father and Moira deliberately kept mention of the Chantry out of the oath, based on their associations with the Usurper.

"I do swear." As she spoke, Maric stepped forward. He turned toward Audra, who held in her hands a small cushion upon which lay a circlet of fine gold—one of hers that would have to suffice as a crown for the time being. Maric picked up the circlet and placed it on his mother's head. When he finished adjusting it he took a step back to admire her. Rowan could see that his eyes glistened with unshed tears, the pride he felt for his mother swelling over all of those gathered to witness the coronation.

Taking a deep breath, Queen Moira raised her voice to speak to the crowd. "These things I have promised in the sight of the Maker and His Bride, I will perform and keep. The Maker and His Bride guide me."

A roar of approval rose from the crowd, cheers of "Maker preserve Queen Moira!" resounding through the air. The Queen turned and gathered Maric into a tight hug for a moment before holding him out at arm's length. The sunlight caught the golden circlet on her head, making the highlights in her fiery hair stand out.

"I promise you, Maric: you will one day take my place as King and, when you do, it will be as King of a free Ferelden. You and Rowan will watch your children grow up in peace from the palace in Denerim. I swear it."

Despite the fear and apprehension thrumming through her at what was to come, Rowan felt the first seeds of hope take root inside her.

* * *

_I loosely based Queen Moira's vows on the vows that Queen Elizabeth II took at her coronation. It seemed fitting since she just celebrated her Diamond Jubilee._

_There is no historical evidence that the practice of ****__droit du seigneur __had taken place in medieval times. In my head canon, I could see the Orlesians partaking in this practice in order to propagate their bloodlines and further humiliate and subjugate the Fereldans._  


_Thanks to those of you following yet another story of mine. I appreciate it more than you could know! Am I crazy for starting a third story? Well, if the shoe fits... :)  
_


	2. Taken By Surprise

_**Thanks to Suilven and her big beta stick of awesomeness (and doom). Your suggestions about certain plot points were spot on. I'm glad to have a second set of eyes like yours looking over my stuff (because it all tends to run together after a bit)!**_

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Summer gradually gave way to fall, though if one had asked any Fereldan how their summer had been, the answer would likely have been "what summer?" The growing months had been cool and damp; most farmers' fields had been either under water or—if they were lucky—simply wet and muddy. The scouts and Fereldans that had come to the rebel army from the Bannorn had reported a great deal of worry among the freeholders and farmers for a poor harvest this fall, especially from those in the north. While the supplies of food were currently sufficient, Rendorn and Moira agreed that some sort of rationing and preservation plan should be implemented as soon as possible.

Along with the preservation efforts, the rebel army had made it a priority to disrupt the supply caravans of the Orlesians and their sympathizers whenever possible. Most of the army's conquests had been small caravans on lightly traveled roads in the more rural south and west of Ferelden. Most major settlements along the North Road and the old Imperial Highway had either chevaliers crawling through them or Orlesian sympathizers. Even if they had wanted to help the rebel army, most were afraid to so do for fear of Meghren's wrath. Queen Moira had been reluctant to commit a number of troops to harass larger caravans in the past, simply because their numbers had been small. With the addition of men from Rendorn's army and those of several of his vassals, the number of men in the rebel army had swelled to the point where sorties against caravans could begin in earnest.

It was a cool and dreary morning in autumn when a rebel scout had come into the camp with the news of a supply column moving south along the Imperial Highway near Lake Calenhad. The scout had reported seeing the lead riders dressed in the heavy armor of chevaliers, carrying the banners of Orlais and occupied Ferelden at the front of the group. A number of chevaliers had been scattered among the three wagons of the caravan; two had appeared to be carrying supplies while the third seemed to be carrying several passengers. The greatest concentration of chevaliers had surrounded the middle cart of the caravan.

"They must be heading toward Redcliffe," Rendorn said, pointing at the map spread across an old, almost rickety table in the patched and shabby tent that served as the war room. Audra sat at one of the camp chairs along one side of the tent while Moira and Rendorn stood at one side of the table. Maric, Rowan, and two top army lieutenants stood on the other side.

"If the report is accurate," Rendorn continued, "they must be transporting something of value to have chevaliers stationed so close to just one of the wagons."

The Queen nodded, her finger following the twisting line that represented the Imperial Highway. "We need whatever it is in that caravan; obviously, the Orlesians must deem it of value if chevaliers are escorting it." She looked up at Rendorn, a grin pulling on the corner of her mouth. "We're just taking back what is ours to begin with."

Rowan noticed Maric stiffen slightly from where he stood at her left. She knew that he hated strategic meetings like this one; he was quickly bored with talk of battle tactics, supply chains, and intelligence. The Queen, however, had not been about to let Maric skip out on such planning sessions.

"You'll need to know how to plan such things when you are King," she had told him several times before, ignoring his rolling eyes or huffs of boredom. "One day, you will command an army; you need to know about tactics and strategy to not only direct your men, but to also protect them—and yourself—from any malcontents that may be in your midst."

Maric would generally scoff at such a speech. His mother was the Rebel Queen… invulnerable. Permanent. By the time he would have to worry about such things, the Orlesians would be long gone; his mother would rule Ferelden for many more years, so why should he bother with such boring things now? There was plenty of time to learn these things after they arrived in Denerim.

Rowan heard Maric scoff from her side, huffing in exasperation as his mother and the Arl continued talking tactics. She moved slightly closer to Maric, turning so that her mouth rested near his ear.

"You really should pay attention, Maric. You'll have to lead men of your own soon; that's why your mother has you working with a trainer so often, you know. You can't just do whatever you want because you're the Prince."

"Yes, yes, I know," Maric said, his voice a low whisper barely heard above the voices of the Queen and the Arl. "Though you sound an awful lot like her right now; are you practicing _your_ nagging for when you will be Queen?"

Rowan bristled but, before she could voice an angry retort, the Queen politely cleared her throat to gather attention back to her.

"It's settled, then. We attack the caravan. Start putting together a team of men…" The Queen paused, looking across the table to Rowan and Maric. "… And I'd like Rowan to accompany me."

A profound nervousness settled into Rowan's stomach, causing it to slowly flip inside her. Though she had been training to lead men since they had arrived at camp, she felt she still had much to learn. Having to fight at the Queen's side was both a thrilling honor and an utterly terrifying prospect. Could she lead men to the Queen's satisfaction, or to her father's for that matter? Rowan looked up at her father; she saw on his face a mixture of pride and concern as he contemplated the Queen's request. Her mother—still sitting quietly in her chair—looked at her with a small smile. Even so, Rowan could still sense the concern lying just under the surface of that expression. She also saw that her mother's face looked slightly… off. Maybe it was the dark circles under her eyes or how her skin looked even more like a porcelain doll in the wan light.

"I think this will be an excellent opportunity for Rowan to show what she has learned," Rendorn said, standing straight and looking upon his young daughter with pride. "And what of the Prince, Your Majesty?"

"Maric will remain with the camp for the time being," Moira said. "I think it would be best if we enter skirmishes together only when absolutely necessary. That way—if something happens to one of us—the royal line will still go on. We won't be in the same place at the same time."

Out of the corner of her eye, Rowan saw Maric visibly relax next to her. Staying within the relative safety of the rebel camp was likely just what he had wanted in the first place. A sense of irritation filled Rowan; she also saw it reflected in her father's expression from across the table. As fond as she was of Maric, his apparent disinterest in his duties as Price maddened her. Did he not realize that the men and women in the rebel army fought not only for his mother, but also for _him?_ That they fought to restore the line of Calenhad to its rightful place upon the throne in Denerim? He should _want_ to help them, not simply sit back and let them shed their sweat and blood while he reaped whatever meager benefits his title allowed.

"That suits me just fine, Mother," Maric said. "I can…"

Moira held up a hand, stopping Maric's words. "But while we are gone, you will report to Lieutenant Marcus Wallum; he will be tutoring you in the ways of hand-to-hand combat."

Rowan turned and watched as Maric's shoulders drooped considerably. "Mother, why Lieutenant Wallum? You know I don't like him."

"You only don't like him because he's hard on you, son. Do you think the Orlesians will be any easier on you in a battle? That they will take it easy on you because you're the Prince?" Rowan watched as fire lit within the Queen's eyes. She sensed Maric flinch slightly from beside her. The Queen rarely became angry with Maric, but it was clear that something Maric had said or an expression on his face had hit a nerve.

"No, Maric, I'll tell you what will happen if you're in a battle with the Orlesians. They will find out you are the Prince and they will come at you _hard._ They will want to be the one who brought death to Calenhad's heir… they will _want_ those bragging rights because they will think it will garner them favor with the Usurper or even the Emperor himself." The Queen pointed a finger across the table at her only son and heir. "So, you _will_ train with Lieutenant Wallum until he says otherwise."

As soon as the words were spoken, her face softened. Instead of an accusatory finger pointed at Maric, she reached across the table and brushed her hand across Maric's lightly stubbled face. "Maric, you are the light of my life. I won't always be here to protect you, so you _must_ learn to help protect yourself and those you command."

"I know," Maric said, his voice a low mutter. "I'll meet with the Lieutenant."

Moira smiled. "Excellent. Then let's all prepare to take back what's ours."

* * *

"Mother?"

Rowan was dressed in her heavy armor, freshly polished and ready to take on the Orlesian supply caravan. Her nerves tingled with excitement, but underneath the thrumming within her lay a concern for her mother. In the recent days, Rowan had noticed that her mother had looked more pale than usual and generally picked at her meager meals, eating only a few bites of each. Everyone in the camp was always on the edge of hungry with the rationing, so watching her mother simply pick at her food troubled her. Rowan waited outside the tent her parents had taken for their own, shifting her weight from foot to foot as the moments passed.

Just as Rowan was ready to reach out and pull back the flaps herself, her mother appeared on the other side. Audra was wrapped in a heavy shawl, which she pulled tighter around her as the chilly air from outside rushed into the tent. Audra stepped aside, waving Rowan forward with a hand.

"Rowan, come in out of cold before you catch your death."

Moving past her mother, Rowan turned and watched as Audra closed the tent flaps behind her, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders when she was finished. Audra looked her daughter over, giving an approving nod at the shining armor and radiant youth Rowan projected.

"I take it the Queen is ready to leave?"

Rowan nodded. "Yes, Mother. But I came to see you first… I'm concerned for you."

"Me?" Audra said, her voice questioning. "Why are you worried about me?"

"You don't look well, Mother. You're pale. You haven't been eating much. Are you feeling all right? Are you with fever? Perhaps you should see Wilhelm…"

With a wave of her hand and a light chuckle, Audra dismissed Rowan's concern. "I'm tired, I'll give you that much. It's been hard living in the army camp, especially with the weather being as uncooperative as it has been. But, I'm fine, Rowan. Wilhelm's talents are needed for the army, not for the wife of an arl who is simply unaccustomed to such difficult conditions."

The shawl slipped slightly as Audra waved her hand, giving Rowan a glimpse of her mother's form beneath it. She was thinner than she had been but, then again, they all were with the food rationing and constant stresses of camp life. However, her mother seemed even frailer than she should have been considering the circumstances. The plain gown her mother wore—one that Rowan recognized as one she had often wore around Redcliffe Castle on the days she had helped tend to the flower beds or pick vegetables from the garden within the castle walls—was more or less hanging off her frame rather than hugging her curves.

Shouts from outside the tent drew Rowan and Audra's attention before she could question her further. It was Rendorn, calling out for those going on the mission to assemble in what served as the camp's central square. Rowan looked back at her mother, who gave her what she thought was supposed to be a smile of reassurance. To Rowan, it looked more like a grimace masquerading as a smile.

"Go, Rowan. Give the Usurper's men a black eye and do your parents' proud."

With a quick kiss to her Mother's cheek, Rowan settled her green plumed helmet on her head, leaving the tent and moving through the camp toward her father and the Queen.

_I'll speak to Father of this when I get back… No matter what Mother says, something isn't right._

* * *

The ambush point lay in the road ahead, the scouts and their supplies sent out before the main body of riders the night before. Those scouts had been back and forth between the parties, giving quick updates as to the status of both the ambush site and the approaching Orlesians.

Rowan rode at the Queen's side at her behest. While she had spoken to Queen Moira on a number of occasions, the thought of being in her close company for so long had made Rowan acutely nervous. She need not have worried about it; the Queen was pleasant company. Though Rowan had known of the Queen's history and how her family had been deposed, those stories had been told to her through tutors or by her parents; to hear the tales first hand from the Queen herself had been an education. The Queen spoke of her father's defeat against the Orlesians and the struggle to unite ragtag bands of disenfranchised Fereldans into an army. She had also spoken of her friendship with the Guerrins, telling Rowan of how, years ago, she had allowed herself to be captured by the Arl's men for the chance to persuade him to throw in his lot with her.

"I must admit, Lady Rowan, that there was a brief time when I thought your father actually _would_ give me to the Orlesians," Moira had said as they rode. A small smile had crossed the Queen's face at the memory. "I had convinced my generals that your father wouldn't do that… that he was a true Fereldan who hated seeing our people subjugated as much as I did. Your father later told me that he briefly had considered surrendering me to the Usurper. After all, I would have garnered a great deal of favor."

"Weren't you worried, Your Majesty?"

The Queen had laughed heartily. "Of course I was. I wasn't looking forward to having my head on a pike but decided meeting with your father was a chance worth taking."

Rowan had nodded, the Queen's infectious smile causing one to spread across Rowan's face. "My father does tell that story fondly now; of course, he must be careful to whom he speaks of it. Still, I heard that story often as a girl."

"I never imagined your father and me becoming such close friends. In truth, I was looking for an ally, but what I gained was so much more than that. And that, Lady Rowan, was why you and Maric were betrothed as children. I wanted to formally honor your family and their support to my—and Maric's—endeavor."

The mention of Maric had sent Rowan's thoughts toward the young man she was betrothed to. She had known for as long as she could understand that she and Maric would someday wed and—with the Maker's grace—lead Ferelden as King and Queen. All of her education—administrative, political, warfare—had been to prepare her for the day she and Maric were finally wed and crowned before the Maker and their people.

In her prayers, she thanked the Maker that Maric was such a likable young man, even if he drove her to madness on occasion. She considered herself lucky; she knew that there had been betrothals in the past where those engaged could barely stand each other. Even when Maric needled her to the point where she saw red, she was no match for the charming, boyish smile he would favor her with. It was the same smile that often graced the Queen's face and Rowan found herself unable to resist its charm. No wonder her parents looked upon the Queen so kindly.

There had been times that Rowan and Maric had laughed about their betrothal, a hypothetical concept that had seemed so far off into the future as to be almost impossible. When they were younger children, Maric and his mother had visited Redcliffe as often as possible, leaving the affianced children to play and explore the areas within the castle. When they had inevitably argued, Maric would tell Rowan "one day, I'll be King and you'll _have_ to listen to me, so you might as well start now!"

That argument had often resulted in a tussle between them, with Maric running to his mother for protection from a seething Rowan. While there had been times Rowan had been scolded by her parents for being too harsh with Maric, other times had seen Moira smile and leave Maric to sink or swim on his own.

As they had grown older and the Guerrins eventually joined the rebel army, Maric and Rowan had occasionally discussed their betrothal. Depending on their moods, the conversations varied from laughter and teasing about the prospect of marriage, to resentment that their parents had made their decision for them. At times, Rowan had felt trapped at the prospect of an arranged marriage, but had known that it was her responsibility and duty as the daughter of an Arl.

"Lady Rowan, we're here."

Blinking away her thoughts, Rowan turned to regard the Queen at her side. Queen Moira was pointing to a place in the road ahead of them. This part of the Imperial Highway was bordered on both sides by rolling hills, the magisters apparently cutting the road through the hills with their magic rather than going over or around them. While men and horses would likely be able to traverse the hills if necessary, it would be nearly impossible for a wagon to do so, let alone wagons filled with people or provisions. Rowan found herself nodding slightly; it was indeed a good spot for an ambush.

Before long, the scene was set and the only players missing were the Orlesians themselves. An old—but serviceable looking—cart had been placed in the road, one of the front wheels damaged as if from wear. Several of the Queen's soldiers—who would be masquerading as merchants—would stay with the cart, putting up the appearance of working on it. Several archers took to the trees on the hills while other soldiers remained on horseback close by but out of direct sight. Wilhelm's golem was just off to the side of the road near the point where the Orlesians would enter the area, crouched down so that it looked like nothing more than a pile of rocks.

Rowan found herself hidden in bushes near the cart with the Queen at her side. Her face was hidden by a heavy helmet, but Rowan could feel the anticipation radiating off the Queen. Her high spirits were infectious; the men around them quietly buzzed with nervous excitement.

The first of the Orlesians came over the nearby rise moments later, slowing as they observed the scene ahead of them. Several finely armored men came forward from the middle of the group, their angry voices hanging in the air. Rowan was not entirely fluent in Orlesian, but she understood enough from the words and tone to conclude that they were demanding that the Fereldans move out of the way before they were chopped up and fed to their horses. The Queen bristled from beside Rowan, but made no move to attack just yet. They continued to watch the caravan enter the area, passing the golem so that the entire party was in the road between the disabled cart and the stone creature.

When the caravan had stopped, the Queen turned to the lieutenant on her right, nodding slightly. Rowan watched as the man pulled a small whistle from inside his gauntlet, blowing into it three times. It sounded much like the finches that inhabited the forest. It was not more than a few moments later that shouts could be heard from near the rear of the Orlesian caravan; the battle had begun. The Queen stood, raising her sword and beating it against her shield. "For Ferelden!"

The chevaliers standing at the damaged carriage looked about but, before they could draw their weapons, the soldiers masquerading as merchants had produced daggers from hidden sheathes within their plain clothing, plunging them into the gaps of the chevaliers' armor at the neck. A magical fog had settled around the chevaliers in the middle of the pack—those surrounding the cart with the most significance—causing the Orlesians' movements to slow and then finally stop, the men falling to the ground to be easily picked off by the archers.

Wilhelm's golem was a force unto itself, keeping the road blocked behind the caravan to prevent escape. Swords clanged against the stone creature and shouts of frustration could be heard over the sounds of battle. Several chevaliers had been tossed about like ragdolls; the golem had easily picked up the heavily armored men and threw them away with seemingly little effort.

Rowan and the Queen raced down the hill toward the wagon, engaging in combat with the chevaliers that had attempted to rally around their fallen comrades. Rowan's focus narrowed until the shouts of battle around her were little more than a drone in the back of her mind. Parry, thrust, block, slash… over and over again as the minutes passed in a whirlwind.

As the battle continued. one of the chevaliers was successful in landing a blow to Rowan's leg finding a gap between the plates of armor protecting her. She yelped as white hot pain caused her to stumble to the side, narrowly avoiding the blade that had swung toward her head. Blood flowed freely from the wound, soaking into the breeches she wore beneath her greaves.

Orlesian curses filled her ears as the chevalier readied for another swing. Rowan allowed herself to drop to the ground, where she picked up her uninjured leg and thrust it into the knee of her looming attacker. A sickening snap filled the air, impossibly loud in Rowan's ears. The Orlesian's leg collapsed beneath him, sending him sprawling to the ground beside her. As the man fell, Rowan quickly got up onto her knees, her injured leg screaming in protest. She raised her sword above her head and thrust the point of it down into her opponent's neck and twisted it, silencing his curses.

Rowan looked up as she pulled her sword from the neck of the dead Orlesian. Arrows from the archers continued to rain down upon the chevaliers caught in Wilhelm's magical fog. The golem was now near the Queen, easily fending off any soldiers that attempted to flank her or sneak up on her from behind. Rowan saw that the Queen's helmet had lost its metal visor; Her Majesty's face was reddened from exertion, but her wide, bright eyes conveyed her high spirits. The expression on her face told Rowan that she was extremely pleased with both fighting the Orlesians and how the tide of the battle had progressed. The Fereldans had easily caught the Orlesians off guard, using the choke point, magic, and an almost mythical creature to quickly ensure victory.

Once the majority of the chevaliers were either dead or dying, the Queen beckoned Rowan and her top lieutenants toward the carts, eager to see what was contained within. A number of the Queen's soldiers had surrounded one of them with swords drawn; it was a passenger carriage that contained several Orlesian citizens in fine clothing. After questioning, it was determined that the passengers within happened to be an artisan specializing in Orlesian masks, his family, and his apprentice. The artisan had a small chest of samples with him, which the Queen quickly appropriated.

"These will make for a lovely diversion," she had said, grinning at Rowan. "The archers will certainly enjoy taking target practice with them."

Rowan watched as the artisan's face fell, then became pinched in anger. He kept silent, no doubt thinking that that was the best option while surrounded by rebellious and heavily armored Fereldans.

"Your Majesty," a voice called out excitedly from another cart, "come here, quickly!"

Rowan followed the Queen toward the voice that beckoned her. A number of soldiers were peering into the two remaining carts, murmuring over the contents of each. Rowan edged past the soldiers gathered around the first cart, looking inside to see what looked like dried foodstuffs and camping supplies; this, apparently, was the cart that housed the items the caravan needed for camping along the road. The cart was over half empty and Rowan heard one of the soldiers explain that this caravan had likely come directly from Orlais.

_But why Orlais and not Denerim, _Rowan wondered silently as she pulled her head from the cart's interior. The Queen was moving swiftly toward the other cart, the loose strands of her hair blowing about her head with the movement. She audibly gasped when she reached the cart and looked inside. Alarmed, Rowan ordered the men next to her to stay and guard the Orlesian civilians before she sprinted to where the Queen stood. A look of what appeared to be astonishment was on her face, which then turned into a joyful grin. She turned to the lieutenant next to her.

"Have Wilhelm heal one of the injured chevaliers and bring him to me. I want to know _exactly_ what this was meant for."

With a nod, the lieutenant ran off toward where the few surviving chevaliers were being guarded, shouting for Wilhelm to come to him. Rowan arrived at the Queen's side.

"Your Majesty, is something wrong?"

"No, Lady Rowan," the Queen said, grasping her armored shoulders and grinning widely. "Take a look."

Puzzled, Rowan stuck her head inside the cart to see what it was that had put such a smile on the Queen's face in the immediate aftermath of a battle. Inside, Rowan saw several heavy chests secured to the sides of the cart. One had the lock picked open to reveal a number of Orlesian gold coins contained within. Wide-eyed, Rowan turned back toward the Queen, who had reached out to pluck one of the coins from the chest.

"This is quite the prize, Lady Rowan. I intend to find out what this gold was meant for."

The Queen found her answer in the chevalier that Wilhelm's golem dragged back to the main part of the caravan. The man had been gravely injured with a stab wound to the stomach, but Wilhelm had been able to heal the man somewhat.

"He'll live, Your Majesty, but he won't be fighting any battles for some time; not with a stomach wound like he had," the mage explained as he examined the cut on Rowan's leg, healing it with slight wave of his hand. When finished, he turned to the golem, ordering the creature to hold the chevalier upright by the upper arms as the Queen began to question him. The prisoner had been reluctant to speak at first, but a few rough shakes and squeezes of the golem's fists had convinced the man to answer the Queen's questions.

Rowan understood enough of the prisoner's curses and, eventually, relevant information to realize that the gold was intended to pay a partial year's salary to the chevaliers newly stationed in Redcliffe. The Queen was extremely pleased in not only appropriating gold from the Orlesians, but also giving a black eye to both the newly appointed Arl in Redcliffe and possibly causing him to fall into a degree of disfavor with both the Usurper and the Emperor.

"Lady Rowan," Moira said as she stepped back from the cart, gesturing for her to follow; she was moving back toward the carriage containing the artisan and his party. "Take a number of men and gather up any valuables among the dead: armor, weapons, coin, and jewelry. We can repurpose the weapons and armor for our own men and use the coin and jewelry to purchase supplies where we can."

"Are we to take the commoners' coin as well?" Rowan asked as they briskly moved toward the carriage. "And what are we to do with them afterward?"

Queen Moira's face grew hard. "Unlike that fat bastard in Denerim, I won't wantonly kill those who are of the common man just to make an example of them. We'll release them and let them continue to either Redcliffe or back to Orlais. Since Redcliffe is closer than the Orlesian border, my guess is that they will seek shelter there." Rowan and the Queen stopped just short of the carriage, a brow on the Queen's face rising. "Besides, leaving them alive allows them to spread not only tales of Fereldan resistance, but that they can also show compassion when necessary. Now, go with your men and gather up the valuables."

Rowan nodded, calling several of her father's men over to help. They removed salvageable weapons and armor from the dead chevaliers, neatly stacking them in one of the appropriated carts. Chevaliers that still lived but had mortal injuries were shown mercy; Wilhelm had ordered several Fereldan men to gather up the bodies and stack them nearby. With his magic, Wilhelm set them ablaze with magical fire, scorching his target until little remained but ash and bone fragments, which the golem soon set to scattering about the area.

The decoy cart was not forgotten; a spare wheel brought along from the army's camp returned it to usefulness in moments. The scene of the ambush soon looked normal, save for the blackened spot in the road caused by Wilhelm's magical fire. Of course, Queen Moira knew, the secret of the ambush would only hold until the surviving Orlesians arrived in Redcliffe and, at that point, it was likely the arl would send out a group of men to find the persons responsible for the thievery. But years on the run had made Queen Moira and her army able to quickly move on when they had stayed too long in one place; she planned on having her army well away from the area before the Orlesian search party arrived.

* * *

Excited cheers rang through the rebel army's camp at Queen Moira led Rowan and the men into the camp's tiny center square. Rowan saw her father there, a distinct look of pride and relief on his face as Rowan raised her hand and waved excitedly at him. He returned her wave as he quickly strode toward her, reaching up to take Rowan's hand as she dismounted from her warhorse. Rendorn grasped her by her upper arms, looking her up and down.

"Are you uninjured? The scouts brought back word of the battle."

"I'm fine, father. You should see what we found," Rowan said, smiling broadly at him. It faltered somewhat at the new lines of worry that seemed to crease his face in the few days the Queen and her party had been gone from camp. Her brows furrowed but, before she could ask him anything, Queen Moira was at his side, her hand clasping Rendorn's shoulder.

"Come see, my friend. The Maker has been generous to us."

As the Queen spoke to her father, Rowan watched as her mother slowly came forth from her tent along the small central square of the camp. She had a heavier shawl tightly wrapped around her than the last time Rowan had seen her, one that seemed much bulkier than the current temperature would normally require. She cast her gaze around the returning soldiers for a moment before finding Rowan and giving her a weak smile. Rowan audibly gasped at the pallor of her mother's skin, pale except for two bright red spots high on her cheekbones and one on her chin. Audra's eyes held a slightly glassy appearance and, as Rowan watched, her mother brought a small rag up to her mouth, coughing into it.

"What's happened to Mother?" Rowan whispered, focusing her wide-eyed gaze on her father. Her heart filled with fear at the same expression she saw mirrored in her father's normally grim eyes. He sighed heavily, pulling Rowan to him briefly as he, too, turned to look at Audra.

"She's with fever, Rowan, and grows worse by the day."

* * *

_Thanks to all of you who have bookmarked, read, and reviewed the story! I really appreciate it!_

_Special thanks to reviewers Persephone Chiara, naomis8329, Oleander's One, Suilven, Seika, Ventisquear, and Arsinoe. You all rock!  
_


	3. When the Inevitable Comes

_**Thanks to the awesomeness of beta Suilven for all her help with this chapter! You rock, girl! :)**_

* * *

"Andraste's ass."

Surely her mother would have chastised her for using such language as unbecoming a lady, but Rowan was beyond caring at this point. A cold, steady rain had fallen for several days, turning the ground into little more than puddles and muck. Even now, the sky threatened to open upon them once more. With a wet squelch, she yanked her foot from the soft mud that seemed to be everywhere in the rebel army's campsite. She growled in frustration as she flicked the mud off the supple leather, knowing that she would have to—again—treat them with tallow to keep the moisture from seeping through.

A sizeable lump formed in her throat as her eyes fell to the path she had worn into the ground outside the tent her parents called home. It was a clearly discernible trench of mud and matted grass, evidence of her agitation and anguish.

Her mother was dying.

It had only been a few days after she and the Queen had returned from their successful ambush of the Orlesian caravan that her mother's already fragile condition had taken a turn for the worse. Now, a scant week later, her mother had become so weak that she was all but unable to get out of her cot. Her eyes were often unfocused and glassy, her skin pale except for red blotches on her face caused by her unrelenting fever. Delirium was also beginning to take hold, with fewer and shorter stretches of lucidity between bouts. To make matters worse, her mother had also developed sores along her back and legs that Wilhelm was treating to the best of his ability. Even so, it was becoming more and more evident to both Rowan and her father that they were facing a losing battle.

Even with the realization that her mother was dying, a glimmer of hope still burned in Rowan's heart. Every time she approached the tent her mother resided in, that spark of hope would flare brightly. Every time she reached toward the tent flap, she imagined that her mother would be sitting upright in her cot, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a cup of tea in her hands, gently chastising her guests for making such a fuss about her.

But, then Rowan would open the flap and see her mother for what she now was: a weak, sick shell of herself whose body was, even now, giving up and filling the tent with the odor of infection and looming death. Reality would then crash down upon Rowan, nearly crushing her with its unbearable weight.

Back and forth she continued to pace outside the tent, the trench becoming softer under the weight of her steps. As she again pulled her foot from a particularly soft spot with another wet squelch, a choked sob escaped her. What would she do without her mother's quiet strength guiding her toward womanhood? What would Eamon and Teagan do without their mother to guide them in the ways their father could not? And what would her father do without his most staunch ally, his partner and friend, the woman who had borne his children?

The sound of a tent flap rustling drew Rowan's attention away from the mud caking her boots and the sorrow filling her soul. Wilhelm had exited her parents' tent, the satchel of medicines and lyrium at his side all but empty as he began to walk toward his own tent. Rowan ran after him, closing the distance between them with barely a thought before she fell into step with him. He turned his head and acknowledged her presence with a curt nod and a quiet "My Lady" before returning his attention to the muddy path before them.

"How is my mother?" Rowan asked Wilhelm, the spark of hope flaring once more. _This time will be different! It has to be different… it _will_ be different!_

How many times had she asked the mage that question over the past week? How many times had she hoped for a new answer? Wilhelm, to his credit, had shown a degree of patience with the inquiries that she would later look back upon and marvel over. The persnickety mage was not known for his patience, and Rowan had been quietly grateful for his indulgence of her.

Wilhelm sighed, shifting the pack on his shoulder. Inside, Rowan could hear what had to have been empty bottles shifting about. "Not well, Lady Rowan. Much to the chagrin of mages like me, magic can only do so much. Our talents mainly enhance the body's ability to heal itself." He paused then, taking a deep breath. Rowan felt her heart drop into the yawning pit of her stomach at the pained look on the mage's face. The spark of hope within her dimmed as a lantern dims when the oil fueling it is close to running out. Wilhelm stopped suddenly, turning to face Rowan and putting a gentle—if somewhat stiff and uncomfortable—hand on her shoulder.

"Lady Rowan, I cannot cure the blood fever."

"No," Rowan said, her voice small and barely above a whisper. This was _not_ what Wilhelm was supposed to tell her; his magic was supposed to _cure_ her! "You can't give up, Wilhelm. There must be something in one of your tomes of magic. Let me help you look; I _know _we can find something. You can't just _give up_ on her!"

The mage took a deep breath and slowly let it out through his nose, his breath whistling slightly between them. "I wish I _could_ do more, believe me. Magic—for all the good it can do, despite the ridiculous fears the Chantry instills in their followers—is _not _all powerful. It has its limits. Healing magic is extremely beneficial, but it is also finite." Wilhelm released Rowan's shoulder with a low growl of frustration. He clenched his fist, pounding it into the palm of his other hand. "I can close a deep gash, or help set and heal a broken bone. I can help a mother's pain as she brings a child into the world. I can do many things, but I can't reattach a severed finger… and I can't heal the blood fever that rages in your mother."

Rowan listened as Wilhelm's voice filled with a sorrow she had never heard from him before. "I can help to make her more comfortable in the short term, but her body will eventually be unable to cope."

Small drops of rain began to fall from the sky, landing on Rowan's face and mixing with the tears that had started to trickle from her eyes. She had shed many in the last week, wondering when she would finally shed the last of them. She hated how often they poured from her, seemingly of their own accord; how was she to eventually lead their people as Queen when she cried at the drop of a hat? Leaders needed strength, not tears.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Wilhelm politely avert his gaze, as if seeing her tears unnerved him somehow. Rowan squared her shoulders, taking a deep breath and attempting to keep more tears from falling. She suspected it would be difficult to keep them at bay but, for the moment, she regained her composure.

"How could she have become so sick, Wilhelm? She was never sick like this before."

Brushing drops of rain off his face, Wilhelm shrugged, causing the empty bottles in his pack to jiggle slightly. "It could be any number of reasons, My Lady. Our food has been rationed and is often of poor quality. Or it could be the cold, rainy weather and exposure to the elements. She could be exhausted from the constant movement of the camp; in that state, she would be ripe for any random illness to catch her. It could be any of these things, or none of them. Sometimes it's simply bad luck."

"So there is no hope?"

With a heavy sigh, Wilhelm pulled his gaze away from Rowan as if wanting to spare her the look of hopelessness on his face. He looked toward the distant horizon as if considering his words carefully. The way Lady Rowan looked at him with such expectation—so desperate for any glimmer of hope—nearly made Wilhelm's heart break for her. He could not lie to her however; it would do both of them a disservice if he told her anything less than the truth or filled her with false hope.

"None that I can see, My Lady."

* * *

Rowan picked listlessly at the small bowl of thin gruel she balanced on her lap. The rock beneath her sent a chill into her lower body that the bowl only marginally held at bay. Her mind felt as foggy as the landscape around the camp, her thoughts fragmented and fleeting as she watched the sun peek above the horizon and shine weakly through the mists around her.

She brought a spoonful of the gruel to her lips without much thought, grimacing at the bland, congealing mass as it entered her mouth. She was not hungry any longer, but could not bring herself to dump the mixture onto the ground, not with the rationing in place; dumping it would not only be wasteful, but also an insult to the others in camp who _needed_ an extra portion but only rarely received one.

It would not be long now. While her mother's pain would soon end, Rowan knew the pain of those she would leave behind had not yet begun. There were moments whenRowan had prayed for the end to come swiftly while, at other times, she had begged the Maker to save her. Hope and despair fought a savage war within her, both seeking to crush the other and gain a foothold in her heart.

_I'll do anything... break my betrothal and take vows... dedicate myself to Your service... give my firstborn child to the Chantry... Please, Maker, just tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it!_

A small group of soldiers passed her on their way to the central fire, most likely on their way to break their fast. They looked at Rowan with varying degrees of compassion and pity. A moment of anger threatened to overwhelm her; she did not need their pity!

She needed her mother.

A sharp spike of pain raced through Rowan's head, settling into position just behind and below her ears. She closed her eyes and brought her fingers to the painful spots, pressing and rubbing them in an effort to push away the pain. The pressure of her fingers helped but, as soon as she tried to pull her fingers away, the pain returned with a vengeance. She felt herself grimace slightly, thinking for a fleeting moment that perhaps she should ask Wilhelm for one of his draughts or a touch of his magical healing. As soon as she completed the thought, she chastised herself; Wilhelm's talents were needed for more important matters, not a headache.

"Maker's breath! There you are!"

Slowly opening her eyes, Rowan saw Maric rushing toward her at a run, his hair trailing after him and his fine cloak rippling in the breeze behind him. His cheeks were reddened from both the frosty air and what appeared to be physical exertion.

"Rowan, I've been looking for you everywhere! Your mother—"

Dread began to course through Rowan's veins, fingers of ice wrapping around her heart that were far colder than the chilly air around them. The expression on Maric's face began to tell Rowan the story she had feared was now coming true.

"What about her, Maric? Is she all right?"

As she spoke, Maric extended a hand to Rowan. She reached out and grasped it, allowing Maric to gently pull her to her feet. The bowl of gruel tumbled from Rowan's lap, landing with a dull thud on the ground beside her. The contents splashed slightly as they landed, small bits of the mass sticking to her leather boots. Maric's hand was clammy and trembling slightly as it tightened around hers. Rowan felt her heart turn to ice as Maric gently shook his head and pulled her toward the main part of the camp at nearly a run.

* * *

The first thing Rowan noticed as she entered her parents' tent was the heat. Three braziers burned brightly within the tent, a wave of heat that sought to push the cold beyond the fabric walls. Her father sat near her mother's small cot on the other side, his cloak in a disorganized heap on the floor of the tent. A sheen of sweat glowed on her father's skin as he turned to face her, a look of profound sadness and helplessness on his face.

Her mother, despite the warmth surrounding her, was bundled in what appeared to be several layers of woolen blankets and furs. Even with the bulk of her coverings, her mother's shrunken form was clearly evident. The bits of flesh Rowan could see—her mother's gaunt face; the forearm and hand being gently held by her father—were little more than pale skin stretched over protruding bones. Her breathing was shallow, her eyes closed and sunken in their sockets. Only the occasional twitch or hitching sigh showed that any life remained.

"Can Wilhelm really do nothing? Can't we appeal to the Circle of Magi for another healer?" Rowan said to her father, her voice only a whisper so as not to disturb her mother. Even with the inevitable, undeniable truth right in front of her, a small part of Rowan still hoped and prayed for a miracle. Hope and despair fought once more, using her as a battleground. If she had to travel to Kinloch Hold herself to procure another healing mage's services she would do so, and leave this very minute.

"Enough, Rowan."

With a small gasp, Rowan looked toward her mother, whose eyes were now open and focused on her. Despite the frailty of her body and voice, her mother's gaze—for the moment—was sharp as ever. After holding Rowan's attention for several seconds, Audra slowly turned her head toward Rendorn.

"I'd like to speak to Rowan privately."

Rowan watched as her father nodded, and then leaned over and placed a light kiss on her mother's forehead. He whispered low; Rowan strained to hear what he was saying, but could make nothing out. With a sigh, her father stood and went to Rowan, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving it a light squeeze.

"I'll be just outside if you need me."

Rowan turned to watch her father move through the flaps of the tent, leaving her alone with her mother. Trepidation began to fill Rowan's heart as her mother's gaze lingered on her. Despite the frailness of her body, her mother's eyes held an authoritative, almost defiant look.

"Rowan; come, sit."

Rowan nodded as her mother beckoned her forward with a weak wave of her hand. She gently grasped her mother's proffered hand and took the seat her father had just vacated. Her skin was cool and almost too dry, like weathered leather stretched over the bones beneath. A weak fit of coughing came over her mother, shaking her body and twisting her features into a painful grimace. Rowan helped her mother roll to her side, where she continued her weak coughing into a nearby scrap of cloth. Audra grew quiet after several moments, rolling slowly onto her back as she fought to catch her breath. Rowan pulled a small bit of cloth from a pocket inside her trousers and gently patted her mother's forehead.

The last tiny spark of hope that had always burned within her quietly extinguished.

Rowan felt her throat grow tight as she watched her mother try to regain some semblance of control over herself. She was too young to be without her mother; too young to see her sent to the Maker's side. Mothers were supposed to pass gently, old and warm in their comfortable beds, not on a shabby cot in a threadbare tent in an army's wilderness camp. Rowan cursed the Orlesians for invading their lands. She cursed Queen Moira for forcing her parents' hands, ensuring that the Guerrins would no longer be together as a family nor have the shelter, sustenance, or medical care as befitting their station. She cursed the Fereldan weather and food for being so poor. She cursed her father for not bringing in another healer and Wilhelm for not fulfilling his duty.

Most of all, she cursed herself for not being able to do a thing to stop her mother's pain, and cursed herself for being a weak fool in the face of the inevitable.

"Rowan, I won't ask you not to grieve for me," Audra said, her voice scarcely above a raspy whisper. A small droplet of blood clung to the corner of her mouth, which Rowan gently dabbed away using the cloth in her hand. "You need to grieve, but you also need to be strong for your father and brothers, as well as for the people you will one day rule."

"But _you're_ the one that I need to teach me those things. How am I to learn of strength if not from you?"

A weak smile crossed Audra's features. "You already know how to be strong. It's in your nature already, whether you realize it or not." She paused for a moment, bringing her hand up to Rowan's face to lightly caress her cheek. "You are all I have ever wanted in a daughter. I am proud of you, now and always."

The tears began to fall freely from Rowan's eyes. How was she to be strong—as her mother wished—when she was so weak that she could not hold her tears in check? This was not being strong… it was being weak, and Rowan hated feeling weak and helpless. If her mother wanted her strong, she would have to learn to control the tears from falling.

But now was not the time, and even Rowan knew that.

Audra's hand fell away from Rowan's cheek, landing on the cot beside her body. As Rowan watched, her mother's eyes began to flutter though she was fighting to keep them open. Rowan sensed that time was quickly growing short. "I promise you, Mother; I shall do my best to be strong for Father, Eamon, and Teagan. I… I love you."

Her mother's voice was even smaller than it had been earlier but, even as she spoke, a contented smile crossed her face. "… love you, Rowan. Always."

* * *

The stone was once more cold beneath her, the chill seeping through her doeskin trousers to settle deep within her flesh. Rowan pulled her cloak more tightly around her, an absentminded gesture that was more instinctual than one requiring any sort of organized thought.

It was over; now she had to find a new normal.

The last day was little more than a haze in her mind, her body going through the motions of life without her mind actively engaged in it. She remembered crying at the sight of her mother lying on her shabby cot, her chest finally still and her pain finally ended. She remembered the look of chagrin that had resided on her father's face at the sight of her tears. Rowan had not understood why her father had looked at her that way, but then had remembered her mother's words to be strong for him. Her tears had clearly made him uncomfortable, so remembering her mother's request, Rowan had taken a deep breath and pushed her tears away, pushing them deep inside her where they would not fall again.

Queen Moira had said many wonderful things about Audra Guerrin just before the pyre burned, but Rowan could not remember a single word of what she had said. She remembered standing before the gathered crowd—her father on one side and Maric on the other—listening to Queen Moira speak. She remembered the young chantry cleric speaking words from the Chant of Light, and remembered giving the correct responses to the prayers.

A new normal… how was she going to find _that?_

An arm slipped around her shoulder and Rowan found herself instinctively leaning into Maric's embrace as he sat on the rock beside her. Where her father seemed put off by her show of grief, Maric had no such reservations, encouraging her to vent her grief rather than keeping it locked away. As much as she wanted to, Rowan fought to keep her tears and grief tightly inside her. It was her promise to her mother to be strong for her father—and brothers—and she would see it done at whatever the cost.

* * *

_I've been having a lot of fun digging through Rowan's mind for this story. For such an important character early in the DA universe, she was somewhat overlooked (at least in my head). _

_As for the uses of magic, I've always thought that it has limits. I just can't see it being the all powerful cure all that many RPGs (and DA to an extent) have portrayed it as. If the body to be healed is too weak or too broken, magic may help ease the pain but I don't think it will stop the inevitable. Spirit healers like Anders or Wynne may be able to save people that other mages may not be able to, however, even they (in my head canon) have their limits.  
_

_Big thanks to reviewers Suilven, Oleander's One, Arsinoe, Seika, and Tyanilth. I'm so grateful for all your comments and feedback!  
_

_Thanks, as well, to you readers lurking and following along. :)  
_


	4. Paths of Destiny

**_Thanks to beta Suilven for all of her hand-holding in this chapter. You know you're amazing, right? :)_**

* * *

Snow crunched under the feet of the solders camped with the rebel army, stamped into slick trails between the rows of tents and wagons. Here and there, small groupings of early spring daffodils defied the snow that tried to bury them, their bright yellow petals and vibrant green leaves promising brighter skies and days ahead.

Winter in the Hinterlands had been the most difficult for those new to the rebel army, though even those that had survived winters in the past had not found it easy either. Arlessa Audra's passing had not been the first of that season, nor had it been the last; those that were of a sickly nature or had been injured in skirmishes with the Orlesians were generally the most common victims of the harsh winter and rationed provisions. Pyres had burned on an altogether too frequent basis during the cold darkness.

Skirmishes with men loyal to the Usurper had come to a near standstill as the snow had fallen. The bulk of the Orlesian army had been recalled to the larger settlements in Ferelden for the winter; most had made it back to Denerim proper, but other regiments had stayed in Redcliffe, South Reach, and Amaranthine. Troop movements were historically rare in the harsh winter months but, occasionally, the army had to fight off men loyal to Meghren. Rebel scouts had occasionally heard of small bands of men and goods traveling the roads to Lothering or Redcliffe when the weather was cooperative; Queen Moira and Arl Rendorn had ordered raids on those caravans passing closest to the rebel camp and had only ventured out further if a caravan had been considered easy pickings.

The small amounts of goods confiscated from the Orlesian caravans and soldiers had been helpful to the rebel army, but there had still been considerable hardship. Small hunting parties had been dispatched on a daily basis to find game that would supplement the foodstuffs that had been rationed months before. Other groups had scavenged through farmlands near the camp looking for any salvageable vegetables left behind after the fall harvests. Pine and spruce trees had had their lower branches stripped of needles for tea. While many had complained about the bitter taste, it was something different than simply hot water to drink.

Several other banns and freemen had joined the rebel army during the winter after having been turned out of their homes for one reason or another. Some had been able to bring what supplies they could, but others had arrived with little more than the clothing on their backs. The Queen had accepted those disaffected Fereldans with open arms and sympathy for their circumstances, but, in private, she and Arl Rendorn had worried about how to stretch already thin winter supplies even further. The Queen's anger at the Usurper had grown with every new face of a man, woman, and child that had entered their camp. She had listened to their stories of abuse and subjugation, which had only served to fuel her growing anger and desire to see Meghren turned out of Denerim by any means necessary. Missives had once again been sent to potential allies throughout the Hinterlands and the Bannorn when the weather had begun to turn, seeking their support with tales of Orlesian abuses and pleas to their Fereldan patriotism. Most recipients had expressed sympathy for the Queen and her cause, but few had offered or sent any real support... until a missive had arrived on an early spring day when the snows had threatened to bury the newly risen daffodils with the cold blanket of winter.

* * *

"This is the opportunity we've been waiting for, Rendorn. Finally! Maker's mercy, this is the beginning of the end for Meghren."

Arl Rendorn and Queen Moira leaned over a small table in the Queen's tent, their eyes fixed on the parchment resting on the table before them. The edges tried to roll slightly; Rendorn picked up an earthenware cup and placed it on a corner of the paper in an effort to keep it flat on the surface. His eyes drifted over the short note scrawled before them, dated four days previous. It had been personally scrawled by Bann Ceorlic and bore his seal.

_I have spoken to my colleagues once again about your proposal. We will meet you ten days hence at the location you have specified to ratify the agreement._

After reading the short note for the third time, Rendorn brought his gaze upward and met the eyes of the Queen. Moira's eyes were bright and wide with hope as a large grin crossed her face. Bringing Banns Ceorlic, Kier, and Loric to the rebel army had been a goal of Moira's for some time. They were influential men within the southern Bannorn, each with fertile farmland and a number of loyal freeholders and soldiers pledged to them. Their families had been close allies for generations and gaining the trust and support of one almost always brought the support of the other two. With that knowledge, the Queen had set her goal and pursued it with vigor. Bringing their men to the rebel army would give them numbers to make the Usurper stand up and take notice. No longer would they be a ragtag bunch that was more annoyance than threat to the Orlesians; with these men, the Queen was convinced that they could gather more and more Fereldan nobles to their cause and begin a concerted effort to retake what was stolen from the line of Calenhad and from all Fereldans. A new day would dawn over Ferelden once the agreement was ratified.

Rendorn, on the other hand, remained cautiously optimistic even though a small voice at the back of his mind wondered why Ceorlic and his allies had suddenly agreed to meet with the Queen after months of either ignoring her messages or sending tersely worded refusals. What was it that had changed their minds? Had the Usurper crossed some sort of line with them? Had his ever increasing taxes and demands for tribute finally broken their backs? Whatever the reason, their support would be a boon. _Bah, stop looking at a gift horse in the mouth._

The Queen must have seen the wariness in Rendorn's look; the hopeful expression on her face faltered slightly and the Arl watched as one of the Queen's eyebrows arched upward. She knew him all too well. "Come now, Rendorn; I would have thought such news pleasing to you."

With a small sigh, Rendorn pulled his gaze away from the Queen and settled it onto the parchment before them. Perhaps these past months on the run with the rebel army—and the fractured state of his family—had made him a jaded man who found it difficult to believe in the possibilities that this new development presented. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he cursed himself for a fool; Queen Moira had been on the run from the Orlesians since she was a young woman—and Prince Maric for his entire _life_—and yet she still clung to the dream and desire of a free Ferelden. Even in their darkest hours, Moira had been a beacon of hope; a light when the darkness of despair threatened to splinter the army into fragments.

Shaking his head slightly, Rendorn blew out a sigh. "Don't get me wrong, Your Majesty; I _am_ pleased that the banns have agreed to meet with you…"

"But?"

"But I can't help but wonder why they have changed their minds. For months, they have either ignored you or sent blunt refusals to meet with you." The Arl paused again, one of his hands stroking his rapidly graying beard. "Perhaps I'm just being overly concerned, but I would sleep easier knowing the _why_ of their decision."

Silence filled the space between them for several moments until the Queen broke it with a small sigh. A battle-scarred, yet delicate hand brushed her long braid, fingers deftly twisting through the loose hairs at the end. "I understand your concern, Rendorn. I, too, am curious about their reasoning. However, we cannot let this opportunity pass us by simply because we have questions. If we don't meet with the banns now, we may not be able to again. Meghren's atrocities grow worse by the month and if we can't secure more allies now, we may never depose that fat bastard. The risk is worth taking."

Picking up the earthenware cup, Rendorn filled it from a nearby pitcher of water. At this point, he would have preferred a cup of ale or mead, but those items were in short supply given the rationing of provisions and lack of ingredients to brew more. Taking a long draw, he felt slightly refreshed at the cool water sliding down his throat. He could see the Queen watching him, waiting patiently for him to finish his water before continuing. As he set the cup back on the corner of the parchment, she began to speak again.

"I will need to take a small compliment of men with me to meet the banns. As much as I need to display a degree of trust, that does not mean I will meet them without an escort party."

"I should accompany you, Your Majesty," Rendorn said, unrolling a map of the Hinterlands and pointing to the meeting place. "We need to send a message of strength and solidarity to them, let them know that they've made the right decision." The Arl paused for a moment as a slight grimace crossed his face. "Or, as much as the thought turns my stomach, send the right people to flatter their egos; if we send representatives of the high nobility, it will show them how important they are to our cause."

The Queen shook her head, causing her braid to waver slightly as she moved. "No; your place is here to oversee the camp. I will take Maric with me. The thought of flattering their already overblown egos turns my stomach as well, but if making them feel self-important will garner their support, then that's what I'll do." A grin tugged at one corner of her mouth. "After all, I remember falling to my knees to garner _your_ support."

A wry grin crossed Rendorn's face briefly at the memory before he returned to the subject at hand. He would have preferred traveling with the Queen's retinue, but knew she had a point. He was her war general, her chancellor, and her most trusted advisor; he could question her decision, but knew that staying with the camp and seeing to matters here would be a burden off her shoulders. Now, if only Maric had shown some sort of incentive or aptitude when it came to these matters... "If you wish for me to remain with the camp, then I shall, Your Majesty."

"I do, Rendorn. Maric and I will take a small compliment of men to welcome Banns Ceorlic, Kier, and Loric to our cause. Our victory over the Orlesians is at hand," the Queen said, moving toward the flap of the tent and pulling it open slightly. She addressed one of the guards outside. "Find my son and have him come to my tent immediately."

* * *

The day had started like so many others since Rowan and her father had joined the rebel army. Upon waking, she had donned her armor and sword, moving toward the cooking fires for a meager meal of thin porridge and, if she was lucky, a small piece of dried fruit or meat. After her meal had been finished, she had moved to the practice field, sparring with the soldiers for a time. Though the army had not fought much in the winter, she had felt it important to keep her skills sharp for when the springtime campaigns began. Sitting idle was not something Rowan was accustomed to.

When the morning's sparring session had finished, Rowan began the trek across the army camp toward her tent, seeking to clean the dried sweat and grime from her skin and care for her armor before meeting with her father for a midday meal. As she crossed the camp, she caught Maric out of the corner of her eye as he left the tent he and his mother called home. She watched as he skulked about outside the tent for a moment, a deep scowl on his face. After some agitated pacing, he moved toward the cooking fires, peeking into pots to see what was inside.

Rowan's curiosity was peaked; what—this time—was Maric so vexed about? Whatever it was, Rowan supposed it was likely due to something the Queen had said to him since he had just emerged from their tent with that sour expression on his face. She continued to watch him peek into pots until one of the cooks stepped forward and politely tried to shoo the prince off. Rowan began to move forward, so she could distract Maric and pull him away from the exasperated cook, as well as find out what was bothering him so.

"I'm just curious as to what type of gruel we'll be dining on this evening," Rowan heard Maric say to the cook as she approached. "I was hoping for a new variety but, apparently, there's only one type: thick, with a slightly spoiled taste."

The matronly cook sighed heavily, wiping her hands on the front of her apron. Her voice was strained as she spoke. "Prince Maric, I apologize for the meager provisions, but with the rationing in place, it's difficult to instill some variety in our meals—"

Maric's expression changed, his look of disappointment at the meal replaced with a softer, more sheepish look at the cook's discomfiture. He set a hand on the cook's shoulder, flashing his bright smile at her—the one that never failed to charm his mother when he was about to be scolded by her. "I know it isn't your fault. It's just that I've had a tiresome morning already and I unfairly took it out on you." Rowan watched as Maric took the cook's hand, falling to one knee and pressing his lips to the woman's wrinkled skin. "I do apologize, My Lady. I hope you can forgive me for showing such rudeness."

The cook looked at Maric with a raised brow. "Prince Maric, you are nothing if not a tease and flatterer."

"Is it working?"

The cook glared at Maric, but Rowan could see her lips quivering as if she were fighting off a smile. The fight was a futile one, as the cook smiled broadly at the kneeling Maric. "I'll see what I can do for you, Prince Maric… but I can't have you telling anyone about this; everyone will expect special treatment."

"Your secret is safe with me, My Lady."

Rowan finally reached Maric's side, a small spike of irritation crossing her features. Maric knew provisions were limited and in short supply; why did he think he could constantly receive better or more rations with a simple smile and a bit of flattery? What kind of example did that set for the others in the camp? With a not so subtle clearing of her throat, Maric turned his attention to Rowan.

"Oh, hello, Rowan," Maric said, rising from his knees and giving the cook one last wink. The cook smiled, returning to her duties while humming a tune under her breath. "Still sparring this morning?"

"Yes," Rowan said, allowing a small amount of her irritation to creep into her voice; it made the fight to keep from rolling her eyes easier. "That's something you should perhaps engage in more often rather than skulking about the camp and pestering the cooks." They began to move away from the cooking area, settling on a fallen log that served as a low bench around one of the many fire pits scattered throughout the camp.

"Well, at least _you_ don't have to go traipsing about the forest in the cold to meet some banns."

Rowan turned her body so that she faced Maric more directly. "What are you talking about? Who are you going to meet?"

Maric summarized the conversation he had had minutes before with his mother, telling Rowan how several new banns had agreed to give their support to the rebel army and how he, his mother, and a small group of soldiers were going to meet them in just a few days.

"I know my presence is just a formality," Maric said, a frown once more crossing his face. "If I'm just supposed to stand there with my mother while she does all the talking, why am I even going? I'd rather stay here."

Rowan snorted in reply. "Maric, your mother needs your support; you're the prince. Besides, these are noblemen you'll one day rule over as king. You might as well start getting to know them now."

"Oh, then why aren't _you_ going too?" Maric asked as he pointed a finger at Rowan. "_You_ will be their queen one day."

"I'm not the heir, Maric. _You_ are."

Throwing his hands in the air, Maric scoffed loudly. "You know, you sound just like my mother. I don't even know _why_ I must be there. This is my mother's war, not mine! I've never even _seen_ my grandfather's throne!"

Rowan's irritation grew exponentially at Maric's lack of understanding. She pulled off a gauntlet, angrily pointing a finger at Maric's face. His eyes briefly widened, then narrowed at her as a corner of his mouth twitched. Rowan recognized that look; it was a look that threatened to become a smirk in response to her growing irritation. She knew that Maric often found amusement in her quick temper, so long as he could go running to his mother for protection. Fortunately for Rowan, the Queen recognized this pattern of behavior and often left Maric to defend himself rather than get involved. The urge to throttle him made her hands twitch.

"Maric, you know well enough that this battle is yours as well. The day will come where you will inherit the throne from your mother. So, stop whining about your duty and start acting like the prince and future king… which means going with your mother to this meeting."

"Oh, come off the speech about duty, Rowan! I've spent my entire life being dragged along by my mother to whatever estate, castle, or tent she could find hospitable. I don't understand why we can't just find a quiet place in Ferelden among friends and just live out our lives in anonymity."

Rowan's irritation quickly moved to anger; she felt her cheeks growing hot and knew that Maric would soon see the red splotches on them that would give away the obvious. She simply could not understand why Maric did not share the passion of his mother to free Ferelden from the brutal oppression of the Orlesians. How had he become so flippant and indifferent to his peoples' suffering? How could he ignore the stories of abuse and subjugation that the Usurper and his minions brought upon the Fereldan people? Most importantly, how could he not care about his own family's _birthright_? He was heir to the line of Calenhad, the family that had ruled Ferelden for generations… how could he not see how important that was to his mother… to her father… to Rowan, herself?

As angry thoughts swirled about her mind, Rowan watched Maric's expression move from irritation to concern and, finally, apprehension. Apparently, something inside him prevented the smirk that normally crossed his face from emerging when he saw Rowan in such a state.

"Do you _think_ for _one minute_ that the Usurper would allow _any_ of us to live in anonymity?" Rowan asked, her voice a low growl that almost _dared_ Maric to argue with her. "Do you realize that someone desperate for money or favor with Meghren would sell our whereabouts to him in the blink of an eye? There would come a day where me and my father—and you and your mother—would be captured. We would all be killed; our heads would decorate the palace gates in Denerim and our bodies thrown into the Amaranthine Ocean for the sea creatures to pick at."

Maric's brows lowered and he opened his mouth to speak but, before he could, Rowan jabbed a finger into his chest. He yelped slightly and looked down to where her finger poked him, as if making sure she had not punctured his chest. A pained, hurt look crossed his face but Rowan was not deterred. He would hear her anger in full.

"Maric, you need to stop sitting on your hands and whining as you let your mother and the rest of us do all the fighting." Her finger began poking his chest again in emphasis as she spoke. "You need to help take back what belongs to _your family_… what was stolen from _your family_. Don't you care to see that your mother is struggling to take back something that will eventually be yours? Your people—all of us—are depending on _you_ to help release us from the chains of the Orlesians and Meghren's madness!"

The expression on Maric's face had darkened as Rowan spoke and jabbed him in his chest; his brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, and lips pressed into a thin line on his face. With nearly blinding speed, he slapped away Rowan's hand. It was not a hard slap, but it made Rowan gasp with shocked surprise before she realized that maybe—just maybe—her words had had an effect on him.

"_Stop poking at me, Rowan,_" Maric said, his voice angry, hurt, and insistent. "Stop making me feel guilty."

"You _should_ feel guilty," Rowan said in retort. "All you've done since my father and I came to the camp is sulk, be a difficult student to Lieutenant Wallam, and act like an indifferent, spoiled little princeling."

"A spoiled little princeling, eh? Oh, yes, this is _definitely_ how a prince lives his life. How could I not be spoiled?" Maric spread his arms wide, indicating the camp around them. "I will _never_ be a king to these people; I'll never lead the _army_ let alone rule the entire kingdom. My mother will _always_ be Queen to them and I'll always be the _spoiled little princeling_ following along in her wake." He snorted in derision. "Even if my mother's wildest fantasies of me eventually taking the throne come true, I'll _always_ remain in her shadow; I will live my life being compared to her and suffer the consequences of not being _just like her_. Ooh, and what about being compared to my grandfather? Now _there's _a role model!"

Maric turned away from her, his gaze lingering over the camp around them. Rowan tried to see the camp through Maric's eyes. She knew that he had been told of his grandfather's defeat and its ramifications for as long as he could understand them. The stories—while important—likely bored Maric at best, and made him angry and resentful at worst. Maric was right; he had spent his entire life on the run with his mother, hearing stories of Brandel's fall and the plans his mother had for retaking the throne at every castle, manor, or even meager homestead the visited while on the run. Hearing his mother tell the stories—and often beg for food, clothing, and support in general—had to have jaded Maric to some degree.

Rowan thought back on her own experiences, seeking a common ground between them. She found it almost immediately: both of them had had their lives planned out for them since birth, forced into roles they may not have chosen for themselves if they had had the ability to do so. Since the day she was born, she had been promised to Maric as his bride and queen when she came of age. Her childhood had been spent preparing for that eventuality: lessons in language, diplomacy, and history. She had been taught the skills of war, both tactical and with a blade. Anything she would need to be at Maric's side as Queen—or in his stead should he be away from the throne—she had been educated on. Her mother had also insisted she learn the more womanly skills such as mending and embroidery, though Rowan had had little patience for them. She could understand Maric's feeling of being forced into his role because she was being forced into one of her own.

There had been times in her youth—and occasionally now, truth be told—when she had resented the fact that her life had been planned out for her since the day she was born, with no choice or input from her as to what _she_ might like. Rowan sometimes wondered what her life would have been like had she not been betrothed, but instead allowed to choose the man she wished to marry. What would life be like if she was not meant to take the throne at Maric's side? What would her father say if she suddenly told him that she did not _want _to be Maric's wife and queen, but instead wanted to choose her own path? After a moment, she quietly scolded herself; such thoughts served no purpose. The path of her life was set before her, her destiny set with a promise between families.

Though the silence between them was brief, Rowan saw the troubled look on Maric's face. It had not been her intention to completely dishearten him, rather she had just wanted him to think about the broader implications of his role as prince. Seeking to lighten the mood between them, she gently nudged him in the ribs with her armored elbow.

"Think of it this way, Maric: wouldn't you like to sleep in your very own bed every night? Have a room of your own… you know, a place you can call your very own and not have to share with anyone else…" Her voice drifted off for a moment as Maric turned to look at her. It was Rowan's turn to let her gaze grow distant as she thought of Redcliffe and what her family had given up to join Queen Moira's cause. It was a sacrifice the Guerrins had made, but one her parents had thought necessary for a cause they saw as worthy. Though there were times she had questioned the decision—especially early on—Rowan understood that Ferelden could not be retaken without such sacrifices and if her family inspired others to join their cause, it would be worth it in the end when Queen Moira was officially crowned and formally recognized as Queen before the Maker and His people.

"I suppose you have a point, even if you are being completely impossible about it," Maric said, snorting lightly and nudging Rowan in return with his elbow; he took a sharp breath and whispered a quick "Ow!" as his elbow impacted the armor covering Rowan's torso. He cupped his smarting elbow with his other hand, which brought a smile and a giggle to Rowan's face.

"So, you're saying that I'm right?"

Maric scoffed before smiling at her. "Let's not be hasty. I might start calling you 'mother' if you keep it up."

Rowan felt her heart skip a beat at Maric's smile; he might drive her to all levels of insanity at times, but his smile rarely failed to warm her heart, especially if it was just for her.

Maybe being betrothed to him was not the burden she once thought it was.

* * *

Hopes and expectations soared within the rebel army's camp the morning Queen Moira, Maric, and their retinue left for the meeting with Banns Ceorlic, Kier, and Loric. Rowan felt her own spirits rise as she listened to the buoyant chatter that permeated the camp. Confidence ran high; some of the soldiers had even started making wagers as to the day and month of Meghren's surrender.

Maric had still been somewhat sullen that morning as he and the Queen had prepared to leave. Despite their conversation a few days before, Rowan had not been terribly surprised to see Maric return to being the sulky prince he was known to be. It was very much like him: assurances that he knew his role, yet he would always slide back into old habits. Despite his pouting and indifferent behavior, his charm was such that few could stay irritated with him for long. In that respect, he had learned his mother's lessons well.

Even Rowan was not completely immune to Maric's charms. She had been vexed at him when they had spoken that morning; he had been grumbling about having to follow on his mother's coattails to the meeting again. She had left him to prepare for the journey in a huff, knowing that if she had stayed, they would have ended up arguing about duty and support once again, and that was something she had had little interest in. All the muttering she had done to herself about how immature and spoiled he was had been forgotten as she had seen him and his mother depart her tent for the journey. The Queen wore a simple gold circlet on her head and a ceremonial breastplate over a fine gown of deep crimson; how the Queen had managed to not only procure but also keep the circlet, gown, and armor in such pristine condition, Rowan had no idea.

Maric wore a fine linen shirt with a long vest over the top and doeskin trousers. The vest was also dark crimson and had gold stitching along the hems. Over his shoulders hung a dark leather cloak secured at the neck with a simple gold broach. Though most of the Queen's valuables had been sold long ago to fund the army, she clearly held several pieces behind, likely those with some sort of sentimental value attached to them. Rowan felt her mouth turn upward in a small grin; he did make for a handsome prince, even if he was pouting and simply irritating at times.

As her father bid the Queen farewell and safe journey, Maric caught Rowan's eye as she looked at him from several yards away. He must have seen the small grin on her face as he immediately stood taller, tilting his head back slightly to look at her down his nose in what she supposed was the best regally disinterested look he could muster. Despite her earlier vexation, Rowan first rolled her eyes and then smiled at her betrothed.

Maric's amused look quickly faltered as horses were brought forward by the men that served as the royal guard. Knowing Maric, he had likely hoped for some sort of last minute reprieve. Rowan watched as Maric and the Queen mounted their horses and started off, carrying the hopes and dreams of freedom with them.

* * *

Those hopes were dashed by a single bloodied soldier that had stumbled back into camp in the dark of night, a single word on his lips as he fell dying at the feet of the evening patrol.

"Betrayed."

* * *

_Woo hoo! First new chapter of something since the baby came! For those of you that don't know, I had my baby on September 18th. We both had a fairly easy time with the birth (epidurals are a gift from the gods). She's growing fast and is such an easy- going baby. I'm really lucky._

_As for my other stories, I'm hoping to have an update for "Retribution" complete in the next week or two. The next chapter is pretty much fully outlined and just needs to be officially written. As for "Revelations," I've had a massive case of writer's block with it. I know where I want to go with it, it's just a matter of trying to get from point A to point B in a reasonable manner that's giving me fits. Thanks to Suilven for helping me get back on track with that bear of a chapter. I'm hoping to also have this story updated soon.  
_

_I have to thank Suilven again for the massive amounts of help with this chapter. It's hard sometimes to remember that Rowan and Maric are still teenagers in this story, which leads to angst and flip-flopping emotions. We also did some speculating on why Rowan was attracted to Maric; he can be such a boob sometimes. Suilven mentioned that his charm might have had something to do with it and I completely agreed. She must have seen some sort of redeeming quality in him. I'm sure duty had a lot to do with it too. I had some massive holes in this chapter that wouldn't have been corrected without Suilven's help. You rock! :)  
_

_Thanks so much to reviewers Oleander's One, Suilven, Arsinoe, Seika, and Tyanilth. Your support means the world to me. Thanks to those of you reading and alerting as well. :)  
_


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